The Elder Blood Chronicles Bk 1 In Shades of Grey (3 page)

“I claim destruction. I claim the mantle, and
if any dare challenge me, let them do so now,” Damon said in a
voice as cold as ice. He waited for a long moment then turned to
his sons. Their once silver armor was darkened to black. A halo of
shadows seemed to surround them as they moved. “Veir is gone, what
remains shall be Oblivion. They sent death and destruction to us,
so we take it now and make it our strength,” Damon said to his
sons. They looked at him with faces devoid of emotion and solemnly
nodded. Victory gave a slight shudder at the sight of Zachary so
cold. He had known him for half his life and Zach had always been
vibrant. He seemed a shell now after the magic. Damon motioned
toward the encampment below and shadowy and twisted forms began to
rise. They bore the vague shape of a man but nothing more than
that. All humanity had been stripped from these souls in death.
“These are your subjects now, Tyber. Manage them well for they will
always be eager to destroy. Keep them on a very short leash, and
when you find the accomplice, remove that leash. Never remove the
strength of Oblivion from them. To do so would be to surrender them
to death.” Damon’s voice was cool and firm. His sons knew better
than to speak when he used that tone.

Victory shivered slightly as he watched and
glanced up to Havoc. His scry began to flicker and then died. His
strength was too far gone to maintain it summoning the serpent had
simply been too draining on him.

“What in the name of the Aspects was that? He
just destroyed his own lands,” Havoc muttered.

“That was the ascension of an Aspect. Out of
all of them, Lord Veirasha will be the closest to a true god. He
has just claimed
destruction
, a mantle no other dared to
take up,” Victory answered. He had never thought to witness such a
thing. His gaze turned toward Merro. “Woe be to his enemies,” he
muttered.

Havoc remained silent for a long while as he
stared at the distant black cloud where Veir had once proudly
stood. “So we report to Caspian now. I’m sure he will just love
this report.” Havoc sighed.

Victory shook his head slightly in
disagreement. “No, now we do what? Let me rest and regain a bit of
power, and then we go to see what remains of Merro,” he corrected
in a quiet voice. He doubted they would find anything remaining at
all. In the conflict of Merro and Veir, there was no victor. As
Damon had said he would do, he had ended it. A Veirasha was always
good for their word. “I told Lord Veirasha we would report all and
we can’t do that until we see Merro.”

Havoc gave a slight nod of acceptance. “Rest
then, if you think you can, I know I won’t. Whether he was walking
or not I believe I just witnessed the death of a friend. That
creature in the black armor was not Zachary Veirasha,” he said in a
quiet voice, his expression solemn.

“Zachary Oblivion now, I suppose, or
something of those lines. We will know in time,” Victory said, as
he unrolled his bedroll and wondered if he actually could
sleep.

The sky was lightening with dawn when the
first of the noises started below. She listened carefully,
straining her ears for the sounds. First was the soft cry of her
brother, followed soon with mother’s soft footsteps and soothing
sounds. Then the heavier tread of her father as he headed
downstairs. She had learned that there was a proper time to leave
her room. If she were up too early, Mother would know she’d had
another nightmare and that upset her. Silently, Jala adjusted her
position in the windowsill and watched the last of the stars fade
from the sky. She’d go down when the rattle of dishes started. If
Mother was occupied with cooking breakfast, she wouldn’t notice how
alert Jala was. Father would, of course. There wasn’t much he
missed. The nightmares didn’t seem to bother him, though, not like
they did Mother. She didn’t really understand that, but didn’t
spare much thought for it either. It’s just how they were, and she
accepted it.

Last night’s dream had been the worst ever,
but she hadn’t run to her parents. She hadn’t cried either. She had
huddled for a time, snuggled against Cap, and the dog had eased
some of the terror. The amulet had helped, too. She lifted her tiny
fingers to the necklace. Her Aunt Carissa had given it to her when
Father had told her of the dreams. She was a priestess of Fortune,
and said her god himself had blessed it.

A whine came from the bed behind her, and she
turned to see Cap poking his black and white head from under the
blankets. By now, the collie was used to the routine too, and he
had heard the telltale rattle of breakfast. With a quick nod to
him, she slipped back down from the windowsill and pulled her boots
on. She had dressed hours ago but had known better than to put on
shoes. Bare feet could move silently, while booted ones would not.
Cap stood, waiting silently by the door by the time she crossed the
room, his shaggy tail wagging as his eyes gleamed at her
expectantly. With a grin, she ruffled his head. He was gone as soon
as she opened the door. She closed her door quietly and listened to
the clatter as he made his way down the rough wooden stairs, then
the chuckle as her father opened the back door for him. She made
her own way downstairs, her pace somewhat slower, but not by
much.

“Morning, sweetling,” her mother called as
she entered the kitchen. Her brother was already seated at the
small table with a glass of milk and bowl of thick porridge in
front of him. He gurgled his own greeting to her and clapped his
hands. With a quick hug to her mother, she surveyed the countertop
to assure herself that her brother would be the only one eating the
porridge. Thick slabs of bacon sizzled in the pan, and her mother
was busily finishing biscuits. She concealed the sigh of relief and
gave her mother another quick hug as she headed off to find her
father.

As she had expected, he was seated on the
back porch stairs, sipping his tea and watching the world outside
awaken. She moved as quietly as she could and sat beside him,
leaning her head on his arm. It was their routine. How they spent
every morning. She would awaken first and pretend she hadn’t.
Mother would cook. And she would sit by father, and his steady
presence would diminish whatever lingering parts of the dreams
refused to be ignored. He didn’t even have to say anything; it was
just him. It didn’t matter what was wrong, he could fix it.

“Going to be a good day for riding today,” he
said quietly after a long silence. His voice was deep and mellow
and as soothing to her as it was to the animals.

“Momma said I had to help in the garden
today,” she answered just as quietly. Her own voice reminded her of
squeaking, compared to his, and she frowned.

He looked down at her and smiled. “Let me
handle your momma. I said you could go with me to check the cows,
and Blackjack will need to be exercised.” She grinned back up at
him and nodded.

“Want to help me feed? Not right for us to be
getting breakfast when everyone out here is hungry, too,” he asked
as he slowly stood and set his tea mug on the railing of the porch.
“Your mother will be wanting fresh milk, too. Best see if you can
find Daisy and round her up.” With a bound, she was on her feet and
racing off toward the barn. This, too, was normal, and she knew
exactly where to find the old cow.

He was just finishing graining the horses
when she entered the barn leading the docile old Daisy. She gave
the lead readily to her father and moved to the horse stalls. Buck,
her father’s huge roan, ignored her and stayed completely intent on
his grain.

Blackjack, however, looked up with curiosity
as she clambered up the stall to sit on the top rail. She thought
he was smaller than Buck by a good deal, but sleeker, with a coat
the color of pitch, four white socks, and a thick blaze. Not a mark
on him, either. He was perfect. He was by far the best name-day
gift she had ever gotten, aside from Cap of course. Father had
given her the collie last year and Blackjack this year. Mother
teased that just once he should give a gift that didn’t eat. Jala,
however, disagreed. There were no children close, well, none her
age anyway, and so she had her dog and now Blackjack, for company.
She had her brother, of course, but her horse and dog were a lot
more fun than a baby. Maybe when Jacob got older, he would be fun
to play with, but she doubted it. Wrapping one arm around a post to
keep her balance she reached out and pulled hay from Blackjack’s
forelock. He nickered to her quietly and pushed her gently with his
muzzle. She’d only had him three days, and already he knew her well
enough to expect treats. “I’ll bring them after breakfast,” she
whispered to him. When no carrots or chunks of dried apple were
produced, he went back to eating his oats and she turned to watch
her father milk the cow.

He had rolled up his sleeves for the milking,
and she studied the tattoos on his left arm thoughtfully. He had
scars as well, long narrow ones that crisscrossed both arms and a
couple on his shoulder, though she had only seen those once. She
cast a glance back toward her father’s horse. Buck had scars like
that too, one long one that ran down his shoulder and another
smaller one across his jaw.

“How come Buck has scars, Daddy?” She knew he
wouldn’t talk about his own scars because she’d tried asking
before. He would speak of those no more than he would speak of the
tattoos. But maybe if she found out about Buck’s she would
understand his. He’d joked once that he’d had the horse longer than
he’d had his wife, and he’d sooner part with the wife. Old man
Walker had been trying to buy the roan at the time. Walker had
laughed, and mother had swatted father lightly, and the matter had
been dropped. Her father glanced over his shoulder toward her and
smiled. His dark hair fell down over his eyes briefly, and he gave
a slight shrug as he pushed it back with his arm.

“Because he wasn’t always a farmer’s horse
any more than I’ve been a farmer. He earned his right to this
relaxing life, same as I did,” he replied and turned his attention
back to the cow.

She frowned at the answer. Father’s life was
hardly relaxing. He worked from the time the sun rose to when it
set. She chewed on her lip a moment and considered his words. It
was no more than she got when she asked about his scars. She looked
back toward Buck. The horse’s head had risen at the sound of her
father’s voice, and he watched him intently. “But how did he earn
them?” She tried again, not really expecting an answer. Her father
was silent so long she was sure he wasn’t going to answer.

He stopped milking and began to stand slowly,
careful not to spill the milk. She clambered back down from the
rail and took the pail from him. “I suppose the simplest way would
be to say he was a soldier.” His voice was quiet and thoughtful. He
rolled his sleeves back down and turned his gaze to Buck. She
remained silent, hoping he would continue. He smiled down at her
and took the pail back knowing if she carried it to the house, she
would spill over half of it despite her best efforts not too. “The
simplest answer is not always the best answer though. Soldier isn’t
exactly the right term since we never served in an army.”

He started walking back toward the house, and
she followed closely on his heels. What he had given so far, was
more of an answer than she usually got, and she wasn’t about to let
the topic go so easily. Father never spoke of his life before she
was born. Mother would occasionally speak of life in the city. Hers
was a boring past, though. She would speak of fancy dresses and
parties, and things of very little interest to Jala.

Jala tried desperately to think of a way to
phrase another question before they got back to the house, because
she knew he wouldn’t speak anymore on the topic, once they were
inside. “Where did you fight, if not with an army then?” She asked
hopefully.

He studied the clouds as he walked with the
same thoughtful expression. “Oh just about everywhere, I suppose.
I’ve been to most of the other lands. I fought when and where I was
needed to fight.”

She felt her smile grow wider. “So you were a
Justicar, then?” Excitement was thick in her voice. She’d heard
plenty of stories about Justicars from the Walker children, and the
thought that her father had been one, thrilled her. They were noble
protectors in all of the stories, dashing knights saving villages
and protecting the weak. Her father had stopped at her words, and
she gazed up at him with adoration. Her father was tall and strong
with hair still dark with no sign of grey. She could easily see him
protecting the weak. Her father must have been the best of all of
the Justicars.

“Where did you hear about Justicars?” he
asked. His tone was not one she was familiar with. He didn’t seem
upset, or unhappy. It was guarded, almost cautious sounding. He was
looking down at her with little to no hint of his usual grin on his
face.

Her enthusiasm died a bit, and she answered
quietly. “From Nathan Walker. He was telling stories about the
troubles in the South near the capital. He said everything was a
mess until the Justicars sorted it out.” Of course, there had been
more than just the most recent story, but she wasn’t sure about her
Father’s mood right now, and unlike his words earlier, the simplest
answer did seem the best to her.

He nodded slowly. “Nathan does like his
stories. But you must remember life is not like stories. Things may
seem beautiful when you hear about them, but once you see them the
truth is not so pretty.” He started walking again by now they were
almost to the porch. “And no, Jala, I was never a Justicar. Not
even close to being a Justicar. Run on ahead and see if breakfast
is ready while I strain the milk,” he asked. She nodded to him and
ran on ahead, not missing the fact that her father was staring off
toward the south.